


bring it back

by wartimelovers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of, also incredibly self indulgent, author is a fuck up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 12:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17121653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wartimelovers/pseuds/wartimelovers
Summary: John invites Sherlock to his parents' house for Christmas.A short, self-indulgent tale of love. As always.





	bring it back

**Author's Note:**

> hello there friends and fans 
> 
> i dont know what this fic is honestly, i just felt like writing something short and sweet for the holidays. let me know how you like it
> 
> once again, i want to dedicate this fic to my dearest friend ewa. you always inspire me and i am incredibly thankful to have you. can't wait when its us prancing around london. i wish you'd understand me without words. this is for you 
> 
> let me know how you like it! comments will be appreciated very much!

John closed the anatomy book, leaned in and rubbed his eyes. He had spent the last few hours in the library, studying for the final exam he had tomorrow. The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that as of noon tomorrow he’ll be free of university’s misery for the next two weeks or so. He’ll go home. Eat some real, good-tasting food. Lie around. He rubbed his eyes some more and looked at his phone. Nearly 11 in the evening. He’d better get going if he wanted to catch that last tube train to his halls. 

John got up, gathered his things from the desk and picked up the library books. There was one guy asleep on his desk nearby and John crept quietly by him. He walked down the stairs and placed the borrowed books on the trolley. Then he turned around to face the elevator. 

There was a tall man waiting in front of the closed doors, his back slightly hunched. The man had dark beautiful curly hair. He was holding a lot of books in his hands and some more in a tote bag he had on his right shoulder. He was tapping his foot impatiently on the floor. 

John recognised him without having to see his face. The man was Sherlock Holmes. He was a year younger than him and lived in his halls. Or used to. John wasn’t sure. Sherlock always wore beautiful long-sleeved shirts and elegant black pants, which also always made him look extremely out of place in the halls. Once, John had seen him in a hoodie. He looked adorable, curls all roughed up and a big smile on his face. He had a wonderful smile, that Sherlock Holmes. But all that was a long time ago. 

John approached the man and stood beside him. Sherlock avert his eyes from the elevator. John grunted quietly and said, “Good evening.”

At first, Sherlock didn’t do anything, as though he didn’t hear John. He didn’t look at him, didn’t reply, just stood there as before, eyes fixed on the elevator door. Then he gave John a quick glance and finally replied, “Good evening, John.” 

John knew he didn’t have to say anything. He also knew Sherlock hated small talk. In the moment, he didn’t care. Even though he was tired, the idea of finally leaving London and its commotion behind for a couple of days filled him with utmost happiness. 

“You alright?” John asked. Sherlock kept looking forward and John was looking at his profile: his long face, full lips, now in a tight line, his brows slightly furrowed and his arched nose. John knew why he could feel uneasy though he didn’t completely understand it. 

“Good,” Sherlock replied shortly. “How about you?” 

“Good, yeah,” John said. And then added, “Going home for the holidays?”

The elevator arrived and they got in.

“No,” Sherlock answered. He paused, took a breath and continued, “My parents are in Washington D.C. this year.”

“Sounds tough. Staying here, then?”

“Looks like it.” 

John kept looking at him and felt a wave of sympathy coming for the man. Whatever little he knew, Sherlock’s parents seemed to be out of country a lot. His brother as well. Sherlock never seemed to complain about being all alone, but then again, he never really said anything to anyone. 

John weighted his options. He hated the idea of Sherlock spending the holidays alone and most probably in the university’s library. Without thinking about it more (fearing he might start to overthink and get cold feet), he said, “Would you like to go to Manchester with me, then?”

Now Sherlock looked at him. His already big blue eyes widened out even more and he opened his mouth and closed it a second later. Didn’t say anything. 

“I’m going tomorrow afternoon for a couple of days. Harry’s coming as well. And we’re gonna make pie. Or something,” John paused. ‘Pie, of all things, will convince Sherlock to come with you, dumbass,’ he thought. 

Sherlock looked away. “John, this is very kind of you, but I don’t think it’s the best idea.”

“Come on,” John protested. “It’s Christmas,” he added forcefully and, before Sherlock could say anything, he added, “and I know what you are going to say about it so you can save it. I think you should come. Be with people.”

The elevator finally landed on the ground floor, ending what seemed to be the longest ride from the fourth floor ever. Sherlock stepped out as soon as the door opened and John worried that he might just unceremoniously walk away. But he turned around and looked at John as he made his exit. They walked to the doors and out on the street together. 

John sensed his companion was not going to say anything else. “Just think about it, will you?” he asked. Silence followed. “Come on,” he said then. “We’ll get the tube together.”

 

After taking his exam, John rushed back to his halls. He took the suitcase he’d packed the evening before, closed the door and quickly made his way down the hall and stairs up to the top floor of the building. He knocked on Sherlock’s door but there was no response. He tried it again. Nothing. John let out a sigh. He could’ve expected that. 

He made his way down and walked out the front door. There was a small garden, now bare and dreadful, with few benches in front of the building. On one of these benches sat Sherlock, wrapped tightly in his huge coat, smoking a cigarette. There was a small bag placed by his feet. 

John rolled his eyes and smiled. He walked over to the bench and sat down as well. The smell of smoke surrounded him. He hated that smell and as a student of medicine could not phantom why would anyone ever want to destroy their body in such a disgusting way. He didn’t say anything about it, though. Sherlock’s always done as he pleased. 

“Decided to come, then?” he said instead. 

Sherlock took the last drag and threw the butt in the nearest bin. “No.”

John smiled. “Let’s get going, then. We don’t wanna miss the train.”

He got up and took his suitcase. Sherlock followed him without a word. 

 

Both the ride to the train station and Manchester were mostly quiet. On the train, Sherlock sat down by the window, turned to it and looked out most of the time. He was still tightly wrapped in his coat. John opted to sit in the space facing Sherlock and mostly looked at him. He wondered what the other was thinking about. 

John hadn’t been home in a long time and it showed when he almost got squeezed to death by his mother who’s come to pick them up. She looked over at Sherlock and said in a half surprised, half condescending way, “John, you didn’t mention bringing a friend.”

“Sorry,” John replied. She was right, he could have at least texted her last night. “We should have a place for a lost soul, though? This is Sherlock Holmes, Mom.”

“Sherlock?” she said, rising her eyebrows. Sherlock looked away. “Pleased to meet you,” she finally added, stretching her hand out to him. Sherlock took it and mumbled some greetings back, still not looking at her, not at John, not entirely. 

Short ride to the suburbs of Manchester was filled with the bickering and talking of the Watson family. To his surprise, John had learned that extended family was coming this time to visit them from Scotland and that the house was a mess. 

“There’s a lot to do, boys,” said Mrs Watson as they pulled into the driveway. “So maybe it’s best you’ve brought your friend there, John,” she smiled. 

The house seemed to be already bursting in its seams. As soon as they walked through the front door, a mix of wonderful smells and excited voices took over. There were children running from room to room, Mr Watson and John’s sister, Harry, were decorating a huge tree in the living room, there was definitely some delicious pie being baked in the oven, ready any moment now to join the feast spread all across the kitchen counters. 

Mrs Watson stopped by the foot of the stairs. “Since we have so many people over, Sherlock will have to sleep in your room, John. I’ll bring you some fresh sheets and blankets in a bit, okay?” 

“I can find them myself, mom, don’t you worry,” replied John with a smile. He took both his suitcase and Sherlock’s bag and moved upstairs. Sherlock followed him awkwardly.

“Hurry up, though!” shouted Mrs Watson. “I need your help with the gingerbread.”

John made an approving sound and led Sherlock to his room. It was very usual with dark grey walls, a twin bed and a desk made of light wood. Some books, a small TV that easily could be 10 years old. A small carpet. There was a dusty case on one of the shelfs. 

John noticed Sherlock looking at it as he unpacked his suitcase. 

“I played clarinet in high school,” he said with a smile. Walked over to Sherlock and touched his elbow. “Can I take your coat?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said, voice soft and weird. “You never said anything.”

“I wasn’t any good, believe me,” John smiled. 

“Ah.” 

After John had put their coats in the wardrobe, he walked back into his room. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, looking at his phone. 

“Do you want to come down with me?” John asked. “We’re gonna make gingerbread.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. 

“We always do,” John replied patiently. “Quite frankly, it’s one of my favourite things to do.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asked again. 

“Well, I will tell you if you come with me,” John teased. “And we should hurry, actually. Don’t want to give my Mom’s any idea to put us to cleaning or shopping.” 

Sherlock smiled a little. “Gingerbread seems to be the lesser evil, then.”

 

After Sherlock was given his Dad’s enormous apron and a wooden spatula, they started mixing the ingredients in the bowl. There was soft piano music coming from the living room. They worked in silence for a bit – John was kneading the dough and Sherlock was adding the ingredients if necessary. The silence was pleasant. In the meantime, John’s mother moved around the kitchen as well, putting various things in and out of the over, cleaning and making a mess over again. John suspected that Sherlock was quiet because of her presence. Finally, she took out four wine glasses, filled them up, left two in front of John and Sherlock, who were currently cutting out various shapes in the gingerbread dough, took the remaining two and left. 

Sherlock wiped his hands on his apron and took his glass. “So, why gingerbread?” he asked and took a sip. His mouth moved downwards a bit. 

“Well, I know it’s going to sound stupid and plain to you, but I guess I like the mood making gingerbread puts me in. I used to always make it with my Grandma for the holidays. She’d let me make the most ridiculous things that she’d known would lose all shape during baking,” John said. Sherlock was looking at him intently, glass still in hand, gingerbread forgotten. “I guess it’s the feeling. It seems like everything is going to be alright. I don’t know. It’s silly.” 

“It’s not,” said Sherlock softly. “It sounds nice.” 

John smiled. “Do you have any Christmas traditions that you like?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows a little and took another sip. John finished placing the last of gingerbread men on the baking tray and put it in the oven. He cleaned his hands, took his apron off and grabbed his glass of wine. It was dry red wine, which quite frankly tasted awful to him, but he took a sip anyways. 

“I don’t know, really,” said Sherlock finally. His glass was half empty already. “I guess I always liked to decorate the tree when I was little. Every year, we’d have this big spruce that smelled magnificent. I liked that.” 

“Do you want to go see if Harry and Dad are finished decorating ours?” asked John. Sherlock seemed hesitant. “Come on!” John said and grabbed his hand. Ready or not, Sherlock was dragged into the living room, where the floor was covered in various boxes containing Christmas ornaments. John stopped abruptly, trying not to step into a tangle of Christmas lights that lied on the floor, and Sherlock, whose hand he was still holding, crashed lightly into his side. Wine from his glass spilled on the floor and John swore under his nose. 

“Language, young man,” said Harry from her side of the tree.

John snorted and turned to Sherlock. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Let me just clean this up. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I just… I spilled some on my shirt,” he added quietly.

John looked at Sherlock’s broad chest. There was in fact a dark spot on his burgundy shirt. “Oh!” John exclaimed. “Right, sorry. Let’s go upstairs, I will find you something to wear and we’ll get the stain off in no time, come on.”

Sherlock tried to protest and again, John grabbed him by his hand and dragged him upstairs. They entered John’s room and John immediately got to his wardrobe, rummaging through neatly folded clothes without a care in the world. 

“John, this is completely unnecessary,” Sherlock protested. “I have another shirt. You don’t have to give me anything.” 

“Yes, I do,” John said and grunted in triumph as he pulled out a navy jumper with a small embroidered logo. “Here,” he said, holding the piece of clothing in front of Sherlock. “It’s my jumper from high school. It should fit you.”

Sherlock took it, slight blush covering his cheeks. Was he getting tipsy already?

“Played rugby in school, did you?” Sherlock said, a teasing note in his voice. It sounded absolutely beautiful to John. That’s how he remembered Sherlock Holmes, not this pale vision of him that’s been with them since he met him yesterday. “Never told me that either.”

“I was good at that, actually,” John replied. “I’m sure my mom will try and show you pictures as well,” he snorted. 

Sherlock stood there with the jumper in hand and small smile on his full lips. These big blue eyes of his were looking at John kindly. 

“Aren’t you gonna change?” John asked. “We ought to soak your shirt as well.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said in a weird manner, as if John had struck him or something. He looked as if he wanted to say something more, mouth slightly agape, but he closed it in the end and turned around. 

John watched as he made a quick work of his shirt buttons from behind. Sherlock took his shirt out quickly, John saw his broad, pale shoulders exposed. Sherlock was terribly thin. John also noticed a small yet defined scar under his right shoulder blade. It seemed like he’d been looking at the beautiful expanse of Sherlock’s back forever. Seconds later, Sherlock pulled the jumper over his head and turned around. The sleeves were a little short on him, exposing his elegant wrists, but generally it fit him quite well. The navy colour brought out his eyes beautifully.   
He looked incredibly adorable. “You should wear these more often,” John said. “Fits you quite well.”

Sherlock made a face at him but smiled after. 

“Come on,” John said. “Let’s go down and see about that tree.”

 

The tree was mostly done but John and Sherlock managed to sneak two boxes of ornaments for themselves. Sherlock stood on a chair and was putting the Christmas balls near the top of the tree, where none of the Watsons could normally reach with ease. John stood beside him, handing him the ornaments. 

“God bless your abnormally long legs,” said John as Sherlock placed the last piece on top of the tree. Sherlock jumped down from the chair, wobbled a little on his feet, two and a half wine glasses in, and gave John a wide smile. 

“Yeah,” Sherlock giggled, actually giggled. “Don’t know how you did before I came about.”

John smiled at him. “The four of us would stand on each other’s shoulders and form a human ladder. How did you think?” 

Sherlock snorted and said nothing else. In that moment John realised they were standing very close to each other. He felt his heart beat a little bit faster and blood come running to his cheeks. Sherlock looked beautiful with his curls wild, sleeves of the navy jumper pushed up, mouth stained red from the wine. The lights were dim and they were alone. There was small fire cracking in the fireplace and everything seemed to slow down around them. Sherlock was looking at him intently.

“Should we go decorate the gingerbread?” John asked then. “Should be ready now.”

“Let’s,” replied Sherlock, his expression never changing, only his sharp eyes bearing light traces of disappointment. 

 

The evening ended with them curled up on the sofa in the living room, John’s mom showing Sherlock pictures of her kids from high school. Mr and Mrs Watson seemed to never run out of stories about John; Harry, who was sitting in the big armchair in the corner of the room, sometimes threw in some spicy details, all to John’s horror.   
Sherlock seemed to enjoy this. He was looking at all photographs Mrs Watson was showing, sometimes even asking questions. All this seemed to go away when the questions concentrated on him. 

“How come you aren’t spending Christmas with your family, Sherlock?” asked Mrs Watson. John knew she meant well but he also knew how direct she could be. He felt Sherlock stiffen by his side and sit up straight. He placed his cup of tea on the coffee table.

“They’re in Washington D.C. this year,” he answered simply, like he did John before. 

“Oh, I understand,” said Mrs Watson, though John suspected she didn’t really. “Well, you’re of course welcome to stay here as long as you wish…”

Long silence followed. “I just didn’t anticipate seeing you here. After what happened two years ago.” 

“Mom!” John exclaimed. Sherlock looked on the floor. 

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll go check on the roast.” And with that she got up and went into the kitchen. 

Silence heavier than before fell on the room. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his feet, Harry was sipping tea, observing the situation, and John’s father looked visibly uncomfortable. John wished they would all just leave and he could talk to Sherlock. But it didn’t seem like it was going to happen. 

“So, Sherlock, where’d you study before?” Mr Watson asked, obviously trying to lighten the mood. 

“Harrow, sir,” Sherlock explained simply. 

“And now what do you do?” 

“A joint BA,” came another rushed answer. 

“Oh?”

“Sherlock studies both music and chemistry,” John chimed in. “He plays piano and violin.” 

“Would you play something for us?” asked Harry from her side of the room. John sent her a glare, to which she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. He opened his mouth to say that wasn’t necessary and that probably Sherlock was tired, but then the man in question lifted his sight from the floor and simply nodded.

“Would be my pleasure,” Sherlock said. 

Mr Watson showed him to a small piano that stood in the corner of the room. Sherlock sat down on the uncomfortable bench and placed his long fingers on the keys. A soft and delicate melody sprung from underneath them, filling up the room. At first John thought that it was an original composition of Sherlock’s, but the longer he played, the more familiar the song became. Harry, who moved to a spot next to him on the couch, started singing the chorus under her breath. Then it all came to John. He felt his cheeks burning and his eyes prickling.   
Sherlock finished the song and the Watsons gave him a short applause. He got up from the piano and noticed Mrs Watson standing in the doorway, looking at him in a mysterious way. He grunted. “If you’ll excuse me…” he said and rushed out of the room. 

John stood up and immediately went after him. He followed Sherlock (damn his long legs) to his bedroom, where he found him putting his coat on. He already had a cigarette stuck behind his ear and the lighter in his hand. 

“Not here,” John said simply. He also took out his coat. “Let’s go out the back door.”

Sherlock followed him down without a word. They went out into the prickling cold. It hasn’t been this cold in years. There were little snowflakes falling from the sky, disappearing right after they’ve hit the ground. John led Sherlock through the lawn and they finally reached a small shed. There was a small bench behind it, from under which John pulled out a half-frozen can. He set it by Sherlock’s feet. 

Sherlock lit up his cigarette and looked away. He slowly blew out smoke as John watched him. 

“Love Of My Life?” John asked simply. 

Sherlock shrugged. “I like Queen and it just came to me.”

“Sherlock…” John said and took his cold hand. “Really?”

Sherlock finally looked at him. There were tears in his eyes. “No, not really. But you know it already, so why would you even ask?”

“I don’t know anything,” John said patiently. “I do think you should tell me, though.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just took another drag from his cigarette. John held out his hand in its direction. Sherlock furrowed his brow. “I’m not taking it away,” John explained. “I just want a drag.”

Sherlock handed his cigarette slowly and John put it to his mouth and inhaled. It tasted awfully and he coughed a little. He blew out smoke, took another drag and handed it back to Sherlock. 

“So?” John asked.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” Sherlock said quietly. “But I didn’t know how to talk to you again. Not after what I did. Countless times I was out in the garden in front of the building, looking up to your window. But I’m a coward.”

John looked at him, expecting him to say some more, but he didn’t. Sherlock finished his cigarette and threw the remains into the can at his feet. 

“Of course, I was hurt when you ended things with me without any explanation, Sherlock,” John said softly. He didn’t mean to hurt him now. He’s long forgiven him, even if Sherlock never apologised. He just honestly wanted to know why. And he told Sherlock so. 

“I got scared,” Sherlock said. Tears were slowly rolling down his cheeks. “I never thought I was good enough for you. I felt inadequate. And I loved you so much, with my whole heart, that it scared me. Once I was lying down in my dorm bed, you were just by my side, and I thought that if I had to, I would die for you. I would give you my life, no questions asked. And I felt fine with it. It was just…” he made a movement with his hand and then reached into his coat, pulled out another cigarette. Soft click of his lighter filled the silence. 

“You loved me?” John asked quietly.

“I still do,” Sherlock replied. “I just never knew how to tell you. I will understand if you don’t feel the same. What even… You definitely don’t feel the same. It’s been too long.”

“Sherlock…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sherlock said, his voice quivering. “I knew coming here was a mistake yet I didn’t stop myself. I just wanted to be with you.”

“And why the hell do you think I invited you here?” John asked. Since he started talking, Sherlock was looking away into the darkness. “Sherlock, look at me.”

After a few moments, Sherlock finally did. John let go of his hand and took a step closer. He looked up, stood up on his toes a little and pressed his lips next to Sherlock’s mouth. He placed a small kiss there, then another and another. He moved away to look at Sherlock who was still crying, cigarette long finished still in his hand, and took him by the shoulders. 

“You don’t have to fear anything, Sherlock,” he said. “I know you still will and that’s okay, but I want to help you with it. I want to be with you. If I think about it, it wouldn’t be too bad to die for you, you know? Better live with you, but we don’t always have a choice.” 

Sherlock smiled at him, but it was a pained, sad smile. “You will grow tired of me. And you’ll leave.”

“Can’t I be the one to decide that?”

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” Sherlock threw in dramatically. 

“I won’t leave you,” John said firmly. “I still love you, too, you moron.”

Sherlock gave a little laugh, disbelieving. He threw out the cigarette, lifted his hands from where they were by his sides and took John’s face in his hands. His cheeks were wet from a few tears that he shed. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John firmly, longingly. The kiss was passionate and conveyed a lot more than Sherlock could ever do with words. John melted in his hands and kissed back as hard as he could. In the freezing cold, he felt warm and complete. 

“I love you so much,” said Sherlock when they finally parted. “I will never stop loving you.”

“I know, my love,” John replied, soft. He kept running his cold hand through Sherlock’s beautiful, soft curls. “Me, too. And I will never let you go again.”

 

When John left the bathroom, Sherlock was sprawled on his tiny childhood bed, covers draped over his long legs, chest bare. John smiled and picked up some pillows his mum left for him on the floor and padded to the bed. Sherlock outstretched his arms to him and John settled in his hold with his head on his chest. Sherlock rested his chin on the top of his head after he pulled the covers onto both of them. 

“I’m so glad you invited me here,” Sherlock whispered. 

“I’m so glad you decided to come,” came John’s reply.

“You would make me come anyway,” Sherlock said.

“I suppose,” John answered. He felt Sherlock’s chest shake with laughter and then a small peck on the top of his head. He closed his eyes, content. 

“It’s always you,” whispered Sherlock. “John Watson, you keep me right.”

John took Sherlock's hand up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. "Sleep now," he said. "We've got such a long day tomorrow."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. if you want to pop in and say hi, find me on tumblr @wartimelovers 
> 
> as always, i will be forever grateful for comments! :)


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